Wistful

I am seeking wistful people. You know them when you see them. They sort of amble along, not focusing on anything, in no hurry to get anywhere. A wispy sadness envelopes them, like thoughts of a long lost love they will never see again. You want to hug or at least touch the shoulder of a wistful person.
You need to be a certain age to be wistful. At least 45. Perhaps younger for Europeans, except Germans, who are strangers to this experience. It's all about being near or in Paris. In fact, wistful ones carry around Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. It's best to wander side streets at sundown and dress lightly while sharing your wistful feelings. Don't say anything; just give observers a forlorn expression and wrap your arms around your shivering body. Women do this better than men, although men can light a wistful cigarette more effectively.
As a writer, I need inspiration; perky people are poison to be around if you write; they can be so annoying you want to become a Hemingway character and throw a punch. Optimism has its place in daily affairs, but not in a serious novel. Writers must practice standing at a window, preferably high up, and gazing at the world below as if they are carrying an enormous weight and are trying to make sense of it all.
My problem is whenever I try to be wistful I don't watch where I'm walking and trip over a sidewalk crevice. Or forget where I left my car or where I was driving. If I'm late for your dinner party, go easy on me. I am trying to be in the moment, a sad, wistful moment.

My Art

My paintings are beginning to scare me. First, there are so many of them I have no room for my sculptures, which are formless pieces of dried clay with no purpose except to keep my hands busy. Someone recently described my work as phallic. I wish it were a critic. Sales would skyrocket. Right now sales are flat because I'm not exhibiting anywhere. The reason is my fear of not being able to explain the nuances of my art to interested visitors. I would have to say something like Post-Paranoid Impressionism, or Retro Enlightenment Expressionism or Flagrant Abstraction.
Truthfully, I don't have the patience to draw an orange. I used to spend hours painstakingly sketching accurate portrayals of fire hydrants. Then I saw I could just take a hydrant photo in a second and accomplish the same thing. So I dug deep into myself, became engrossed in mixing colors and slashing shapes across the canvas. I use cheap brushes because genius does not need the best tools. Consequently, hair comes out of the brush and winds up in the oils. I tell people I did it purposely as an experiment. Everyone dressed in black nods in understanding.
As I said, my art is not warm and fuzzy. If you look closely, creatures reside within the shapes-- ugly, possibly disturbed beings. I keep canvases in my overflowing closet and barricade the door. Just in case. That still leaves my strange sculptures lying on shelves, conspiring against me, the way we curse God, our Creator.
I do have the option of darts or pool to fill the time. Phallic indeed.

Epigrams

If every starving writer came up with one good epigram and marketed it correctly, it would earn enough money to support him and leave him time to do serious work.
I came up with one and I provide it here because I trust you to not steal it. You have too much integrity. Here we go.
"Life is like a twist off cap. Initially, you have to struggle, but once you get past the tough part, you are free to swallow all the sweetness within the bottle."
You really have to read that a few times to appreciate its impact. Of course, there are limitations to its applicability. For instance, mouthwash is not something you can swallow or you'll cough like crazy and your nose will burn. Same with medicines, which are dry pills and need to be taken with water. Peanuts aren't sweet; neither is peanut butter, not the way jelly is. Turpenoid, used to clean paint brushes, is not for consumption. Wheat germ certainly is healthy, but a spoonful is sufficient. Lemon juice is too sweet and prune juice has its own problems. Canola oil and pasta sauce are necassary, but don't qualify as sweet.
All that aside, is my epigram too long to fit on a t-shirt or cap or refrigerator magnet? Why am I asking you? I need to contact an ad person, someone who can spot an idea with potential.
Now I'm going to take a nap. This kind of creativity exhausts me. Wait. I just thought of one. "Naps are God's way of extending your warranty." I like it. Both religious people and lazy people will buy into this.
Two gems in one afternoon. I really do need to lie down.

Running From Hemingway

I am reading A Moveable Feast and I can't stop writing like Hemingway. It's humiliating, but I can't help myself. Yesterday I woke up and my bathroom floor was covered with water and it was clear and cool and dark until I turned on the light. I examined my toilet bowl, a clean, rich porcelain that had served its purpose for seven years and I could see now it was beaten, worn down, leaking softly, embarrassed at its own dissolution.
I took my sad pee and retreated to the living room with its tan walls covered in abstract paintings that I had done in Austria during the war when I lived with Lilith and her chain smoking. I thought of calling Mitchell, my friend, but I remembered he was in Nigeria covering the relocation situation. I doubt he knew anything about leaking toilets anyway. I poured myself a drink and went back to the bathroom where the water was getting deeper. I tossed a bath towel on it and it quickly became soaked, but the sunlight streaming in gave it a sacrificial aura. I loved that towel. It was a soft towel, soft in a good way.
The plumber came at two. He was a stocky man with a small dark mustache who spoke in broken English and gave me an estimate and it was a good honest estimate, so we sat down and had a drink to celebrate his honesty as the water spread into the hallway. Within minutes I had written a check in that jaded manner I have when paying people. I handed him two tens and they were crisp tens for his trouble and he seemed to appreciate it. He took away my bleeding, beaten toilet and I stood watching him drive off and it seemed everything had changed.
I gave the new toilet a flush and it was a strong one, full of confidence, a no nonsense flush and I felt quietly satisfied the way one feels when shooting a buck. Then I went into the living room and poured myself another drink and sat in my favorite chair and thought about all the good peeing I'd be doing throughout the long, merciless night.

Pipe Woes

I refuse responsibility for the pipe below my toilet, especially if it's damaged. When I bought, I purchased walls, a floor and ceiling, a door and several windows. No one said anything about pipes leading to the basement, pipes that might be leaking. The plumber came and immediately discovered my bowl is leaking from the bottom. Seven years old and wear and tear have triumphed. This is what we get for sending our bathroom fixture manufacturing overseas to third world countries. The plumber spoke English as a second language, so I hope I understood him when he gave me an estimate. If there is still water leaking into the basement I am praying the building is responsible because my insurance informed me wear and tear is not covered in anything.
I hate pipes in general. Yes, they are necessary, but do they have to be so colorless? No one has ever written a poem about a pipe.
So now I'm waiting for the plumber to return with my new toilet. I should have asked for a power flush model. My friend has one and it's quite impressive. Can I be prosecuted for refusal to accept responsibility for faulty pipes? If so, let's expand it to those with dogs that flop onto their back and expect you to rub their stomach. Now I must go and change the soaked towel on the floor. I should have invested in a squeegee.

No Rules

When you retire there are no more rules. You get up when you want, go to bed whenever, yawn and burp and pass gas, spill food on yourself. Do not answer the phone, door or email. You don't have to remember names or titles.
You can spend the entire day being wistful, watching old b&w movies, a Walter Pidgeon festival, and not feel guilty. Cooking and cleaning are optional. So is shaving and showering. No structure exists in anything.
Then one day you look at yourself in the mirror and notice bits of you are disappearing. A toe, fingernail, an earlobe, a kneecap. As days full of freedom follow, more and more of you vanishes. You walk down the street and no one notices. Enter a coffee shop and the waitress hurries past like you're invisible.
Conversely, as your physical presence vanishes, your thoughts multiply in all this free time. You spend long periods contemplating Velcro or dental floss or why your eyebrows are uneven. You literally enter a fugue state for hours at a time.
At some point you begin hungering for rules.
Out of desperation, you join The Elks Club. Plenty of rules there, but not enough to get you back on track.
So you start a blog, hoping for the one thing you left behind when you said goodbye to the workplace--structure. If you see an older person wandering around, suggest they begin blogging. Unlimited freedom is so 1960's.

Survey on Me

 Many stores are requesting customers either call an 800 number or go online to complete a survey about their treatment when they shopped there, so I've decided, in my quest for self improvement, to offer a survey form about myself to give me a better idea whether you feel I'm worth talking to.
JOE'S CONVERSATION SURVEY
Answer to the best of your ability.
1. Did Joe use big words you couldn't understand?
2. Did he lose focus at any time or doze off?
3. Did he repeat himself?
4. Did his sentences trail off into gibberish?
5.Did he scratch or touch himself inappropriately?
6. Did he attempt to scratch you?
7. Did he listen to your points and nod periodically?
8. Was his appearance presentable? Please be specific.
9. Did he tell lame jokes or endless anecdotes?
10. Did he look around as though he were searching for someone more interesting?
11. Did he use the phrases 'That's a moot point' or 'Suffice to say'?
12. On a scale of 1-5, where 5 indicates conversing with Joe was a pleasurable experience that made you want to go home and touch yourself all over, and where 1 means you went straight to therapy, please indicate how was your overall experience conversing with Joe.
I know your time is valuable, but anyone who fills out my survey is placed into a hopper and the winner gets to spend an entire afternoon with me doing whatever you wish as long as it doesn't involve Velcro.